


ain't no god on my streets

by ascience



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: FC Bayern München, Footy Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And in the dark, they’re just strangers, strangers that tolerate each other, strangers that like to hold hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't no god on my streets

They slipped into it inexplicably. In the heat of the moment, it wasn’t so much the _why this_ or the _why him_ that mattered – it was the sweaty skin and the shaky breaths and the way Robert bit his lip when he came.

Thinking back, Jerome doesn’t even remember the colour of the jersey he tore from Robert’s chest that day anymore but he remembers brushing away a blade of grass, a green blade of grass, and wincing when fingers swiped across a graze on his knee – so it has to have been after a match.

If the jersey was yellow after all, Jerome doesn’t want to remember. Either way, it’s red and blue _now_ because fate weaves its thread like that, cuts its thread like that and sews names and numbers into men’s backs.

Robert often stares at Jerome across the pitch, in a way where you could think he was only looking into the far-off distance if you don’t know what Jerome knows: Habits are hard to break, especially if they can walk on their own two legs.

Between the two of them, it’s hard to label the locker room hand jobs as anything but a habit and yet, sneaking away to drain a cigarette under a dim Berlin street light never made Jerome’s heart beat quite as fast.

 _Robert_ is an entirely new sensation; Jerome wants to cut his thoughts open with a blunt butter knife and Jerome wants to hear him choke on the lies he would find. It’s filthy and better than anything Jerome’s ever tasted before.

On the field they are team mates, off the field they are friends (perhaps) and in the dark, they’re just strangers, strangers that tolerate each other, strangers that like to hold hands.

\--

It’s said that absence makes the heart grow fonder, hence Jerome should tell Robert to stay away longer but he melts under Robert’s hand, against cold tiles or into scratchy bedclothes and vibrates with arousal.

Robert drags his mouth across Jerome’s collar bones and eventually bites down before looking up again, directly into Jerome’s eyes with a blue, overwhelming clarity.

The bite mark on Jerome’s shoulder sends a weak, pulsating pain through his arm so he decides to use his own set of teeth and slams his mouth against Robert’s.

Robert whispers something that sounds a lot like _I love you_ in return but Jerome prefers not to hear it over the white noise in his ears and the faint memory of Mario jokingly saying, “You seem to have said your prayers wrong.”

\--

After-sex take-away leftovers don’t taste any less stale when you’re a world cup winner.

\--

“We should have left our love in the gutter where we found it.” Jerome says and slaps Robert’s hand away when it comes too close to his shoulder. He doesn’t want Robert to take the shirt off for him, he can take his own damn shirt off. A matter of principle.

“Well, what did that one guy say about looking at the stars when lying in the gutter?”

Jerome didn’t expect that answer but he has stopped expecting and started accepting long ago, when he realised that some people think that having a bad reputation is better than having no reputation at all.

“Wilde.” he answers and tries to not let the word roll off his tongue.

“Isn’t it?”

Robert smirks, pulling his shirt over his head, and Jerome quickly follows suit - somehow he’s scared he might have a hard time keeping up.

“No, the _guy_ ’s name is Wilde. Oscar.” Jerome says slowly but Robert only laughs and kicks off his shoes against the wall where they leave dirty prints on the wallpaper.

“I couldn’t give a fuck if I tried.”

Jerome, however, does try but this is a knot in fate’s thread that cannot be untangled. Robert kisses him and he kisses back and Jerome doesn’t miss his capital city smoke when his cushion smells of Robert’s aftershave for exactly two days afterwards.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to focus on something else to calm down so I tried my hand at this, I guess.
> 
> Prompt at the ficathon [here](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=980413#t980413).


End file.
